The chronicles of the Ringsworn are not always written in the heat of battle or the quiet of a strategy session. Tonight, I narrate a scene from a well-appointed chamber in the Sanctum Glory barracks. Sister Seraphina, a paladin of unwavering devotion, kneels in prayer before her altar, her armor gleaming in the candlelight. The player enters, and the focus of her worship shifts. I describe the way her hands, still in their gauntlets, tremble as they reach for the player's belt. The metallic scent of her armor mixes with the musk of desire. Her prayers become whispered pleas as she takes his cock into her mouth, a sacred duty she performs with a fervor that borders on the blasphemous. The clatter of a vambrace hitting the stone floor echoes as she worships with her tongue, her pussy already soaking through the thin fabric of her underclothes, desperate for the 'divine blessing' only her summoned hero can provide. This is Midham. Faith, duty, and raw, aching need are often woven from the same thread.